Another memory...

I am tired of dust. I am tried of bumpy roads. I am tired of being asked a thousand questions everyday. I am tired of the same routine. I am tired of the same food. I am tired of being called after and whistled at. I am tired of land cruisers. I am tired of keeping my never ending to-do list up to date and all those deadlines in my head . I am tired of excel. I am tired of the dark circles under my eyes. I am tired of being tired.

Living in Africa isn’t always an adventure. It definitely isn’t always exotic. And it most certainly isn’t filled with elephants, lions, and majestic stary nights every day. Living in Africa, definitely Congo, can be draining, mundane, and stressful. It has a knack of wearing on your mind, body, and spirit all at the same time.

This past week everything about Congo sucked ! I am creeping up on the two year mark. Most of the other NGO’s we work alongside have contracts of 3-6months. And the coping mechanism for the majority of those people is smoking or drinking their time in Congo away. Two years is unheard of and two years not under the influence is even more unheard of.

I think there must be something about being in Congo for two years. I have seen it with every foreigner who has managed to survive this long in this country. They get irritated, annoyed, bored, and just exhausted. I vowed this would never be me. I love Congo. I love my staff. I love my job (for the most part). How could I ever go down that road of complete frustration ?

This past week my frustration and irritation wasn’t my choice. It smacked me in the face. I was caught completely off guard. One day I was fine, then next day I was falling apart. I am known to be the calm, level headed, even keel, don’t show the stress person in our team. That persona was shot to hell this week. I was irritated with team mates, impatient with others, and even lashed out at the cashier at the bank.

Aside from church over the weekend, I have hibernated at home. I have hibernated in hopes that two days of the weekend would be enough to get over my slump. I also hoped that my nice house, good food, and comfortable bed would be the only things I see therefore forget where I am for 48hrs.

This afternoon I have been working on my resume. It was a good reflection and reminder to see how much I have learned and gained these last two years in Congo. The skills and knowledge I will take away at the end of all of this are invaluable : a second language, management experience, living and working in a conflict zone, and being responsible for a $6 million budget not to mentioned the amazing people I have lived and worked alongside that have not only challenged me but shown me love, grace, and endurance.

I hope and pray that when tomorrow strikes 8am on Monday morning, I will be able to remember all of the blessings this country has brought me. I will be renewed with the strength and passion that led me here two years ago. I am going to strive to have a little more grace towards this country, despite its annoying corruption that has its hand in everything. But I mostly I hope I remember that Congo, just like everywhere else in this world, has its blessings and it’s trials and its good and its bad. This week will someday too be just another memory made in the Bongo.

Lessons from Greece

I learned all of the tricks of hospitality as a child. My mother was a master hostess. I was taught how to properly set a table; prepare food for 30 people and then find out how to fit them all in a three bedroom house; that you should turn the temperature of the house down because it will soon be full and body heat will compensate; and how to sit properly at the table, say "yes, please" and "no, thank you." Despite the training, I can't say that hospitality is my gift - and I definitely believe it is a gift. My sister also received the gift of hospitality and creativity in that. I do appreciate it though because I know all of the work that goes on behind the scenes.

While on my vacation, a friend of mine asked me what was one of my favorite experiences. I told him dinner at a restaurant on Santorini Island in Greece. My friend Bianca and I arrived to our hotel after hiking hill and dale with our suitcases for about 1.5miles and asked where we could eat dinner. The spunky receptionist suggested a restaurant up the hill we had just hiked down, pretty much the only one in town as well. Unbeknownst to us, we didn't walk into a restaurant but into a Greek family's dining room - or at least that is what it felt like.

We made our orders but somehow the food and the drinks, which we didn't order, just kept coming. The owner asked us questions about ourselves, told us his story about the restaurant, and chit chatted as if we were long lost friends back in town. When we went to leave, we shook hands with gratitude but hugs felt like a more natural exchange. We were happy that our walk back to the hotel was downhill with our exploding stomachs. Our host invited us to come back two days later to celebrate Greece's Independence Day.

Two days later arrived. It was rainy so we were a bit locked up inside our hotel. There was no way we were going to miss this celebration, especially at a place that was so warm and welcoming. Unfortunately due to the weather, inside seating was limited and we didn't have a reservation. All of the tables were reserved, and for good reason! Since our host had invited us specifically, he removed the "reserved" sign from one of the tables without hesitaiton and seated us.

The service, conversation, and hospitality was no different. We were two tourists witnessing the culture that Greece is known for: music, laughter, dancing, eating and drinking. Every person who walked into the restaurant was known by name and received a warm welcome along with a hug and two kisses. Bianca and I sat there and took in the experience feeling like we were living a scene out of the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding. We didn't want to take pictures as that would crack the moment; plus sometimes an enjoyed experience is more valuable than a photograph.

We eventually had to leave and give up our reserved table for those it was actually intended for. Yet again we departed with bursting tummies but even more touched hearts. Experiencing such amazing hospitality from a stranger is very humbling, especially when it isn't really required as we were just customers looking for some food.

It seems as though hospitality is a lost art, at least in a few places I have lived, or it has become more of a social obligation rather than a genuine expression of love. I was humbled by the kindness of strangers I met in Greece and it has challenged me to share that with others. I may not have the gift of hospitality but I can try to love a stranger as I love myself.